


Picture Postcards

by nsyncgrrl



Category: Music RPF, NSYNC, Pop Music RPF, Popslash
Genre: 1990s, 2000s, Boyband, Celebrities, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29300664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nsyncgrrl/pseuds/nsyncgrrl
Summary: This story came to me while listening to Joshua Kadison's song, "Picture Postcards from L.A."The band broke up shortly after Justin's marriage to Britney, but a one-night stand with Lance has haunted him ever since. Lance doesn't realize that Justin has feelings for him until he gets a postcard from his friend after he's convinced himself that they're better off apart.
Relationships: Lance Bass/Justin Timberlake
Kudos: 2





	Picture Postcards

The postcard is waiting for me when I get home from work. It's tucked in with a few bills, a letter from my mom, and an ad from Wal-Mart that I just toss away. The letter I put aside, and I shuffle through the bills, disinterested. Then I see it. A glossy beach at sunset, a couple holding hands, walking along the surf. _Love in L.A.,_ it reads in a flourish script across the orange sun. I don't know anyone in L.A. I turn the postcard over, and my heart freezes at the tight black words scrawled on the other side.

_I miss you. Everything about you. About us. I hate living this lie._

My address in the block letters I remember so well. A smudged thumbprint beneath the stamp. The cryptic message -- _I miss you_ \-- nothing else. No return address. Nothing to tell me who it's from, though I know. My throat closes up as I read the message again. _I miss you._

 _Jesus,_ I think. _I miss you, too, Justin. Where the hell are you now?_

* * * *

Lance had plenty of time to get used to the idea of Justin getting married. Too long, actually, since he was the first one Justin told. Before he even asked Britney, he had come into Lance's hotel room, his eyes wild, his curls awry. Sitting on the edge of Lance's bed, he looked at his hands and asked softly, "Can I tell you something, Lance?"

Lance's heart skipped a beat. "Anything, Justin," he replied, turning off his laptop. "What's on your mind?"

Taking a deep sigh, Justin said, "I'm in love."

 _Please,_ Lance thought, and suddenly he forgot how to breathe. He stared at his friend for a long moment, not daring to hope. _Sweet Jesus, please._

Justin met his level gaze and smiled in that gorgeous way of his that shone like the sun. "I'm so sure of it, Lance. I know this is what I want. I mean, I ..." He sighed.

"It's okay," Lance whispered. He reached out and placed a hand on Justin's knee. Beneath his touch, Justin felt warm and so _right -- please,_ he thought again. _Justin, please just tell me._ "Justin, if it makes it any easier for you, I --"

"It's Britney," Justin gushed, and the room around them drained of color. Mistaking the look in his friend's green eyes, Justin hurried on. "I know you think I'm too young. I know that's what you're thinking right now --"

"That's not what I was thinking --" Lance stammered, but Justin continued over him, excitement filling his dark eyes, turning them a deep azure. Lance stared into their depths and wanted to cry.

"But I think I'm ready, Lance. Really I do." Justin laughed. "I bought a ring. Can you believe it? A ring. I'm going to ask her --"

The rest of the words tumbled into meaningless noise as Lance felt the walls of his heart shake beneath them. He bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling and promised himself he wouldn't give into the tears that threatened to fall. At least, not until Justin left.

And then he cried himself to sleep.

* * * *

I can't get the damn postcard out of my mind. That couple on the beach, that orange sunset. _I miss you_ in those black letters, inked on my eyelids whenever I close my eyes. _I miss you._ When was the last time I saw Justin? I can't remember. It was after the wedding, but I don't recall the date. I don't remember what was said or what we did. I know it was at a dinner party Johnny threw for us, a farewell bash after we disbanded. The others were there, and I couldn't get him alone to apologize. I couldn't even catch his eye.

I wonder if the post office could trace the return address down for me, but the only clue is the blurry postmark that I think says California. I read in _People_ a few weeks back that they lived out there, Los Angeles or Beverly Hills, or someplace like that. _I hate living this lie_ \-- I wonder what he means by that, but I don't want to think about it. I don't dare to hope. Not anymore.

A few weeks later I get another postcard. This one is a view of Bodega Bay, tall boats with folded sails resting in tranquil waters. When I pull it out of the mailbox, I don't want to turn it over. I don't want to see that chicken-scratch written on the other side. Who am I kidding? I can't _not_ look.

_I don't sleep with her anymore. I don't fuck her. She thinks I'm cheating on her, but believe me, Lance, only in my mind. And only with you. Do you remember that night? Or is that another lie I'm telling myself? That you still care ..._

I choke back a sob and crumble the postcard up in my hand. I don't want to remember but it still keeps me up at night. I still wake with the scent of his hair in my nose, the feel of his arms around me. _And only with you._

Inside the house, I smooth out the creases in the postcard and stick it in the frame of my mirror with the other one. When I lay on the bed, I can see them above the dresser, my reflection staring back behind them. How will I ever sleep again, knowing he thinks of me still?

* * * *

When Justin asked him to be in the wedding, Lance wanted to say no. But how could he look at that pretty pout and those uncertain eyes and turn down the one man he ever loved? Even though it hurt to hear the excitement in Justin's voice every time he mentioned Britney, Lance knew he couldn't stay away from the wedding. He would be there, and he would be strong, and Justin would never know the way he felt for him, the way he had loved him these past five years. He would never know that sin, and whenever he thought of Lance, it would be as the greatest friend he ever had. Lance vowed that much.

But it was so hard sometimes, and at night Lance lay in bed, his eyes open, tears spilling down his cheeks silently. Why hadn't he said something sooner? He just always assumed that Justin would wake up one day and see the way Lance felt for him. And he would confess that he felt the same way. Lance was so _sure_ sometimes that Justin was falling for him -- it was in the little things he said when they were alone, the way his gaze lingered when he didn't know Lance was watching, the way his hugs lasted longer than the others'. They were so close, the best of friends, together constantly. There were no secrets between them. Then why couldn't Justin see the way Lance felt for him? Why couldn't he feel the same way?

Joey decided to throw a bachelor party for Justin, and it turned out to be the largest gathering of boybands anyone had ever seen. The teeny-bopper magazines clamored for press passes, but it was a closed affair. Booze and strippers and everything he always thought bachelor parties should be, Joey managed to roll into Justin's. When Lance arrived, Justin sought him out, grinning easily. Lance could smell the alcohol on his breath and knew that Justin would be drunk before long. "Hey, Scoop!" Justin cried, pulling him aside. "What d'ya think?"

 _I think this is stupid,_ Lance wanted to say, but Justin was having fun and he wouldn't let his disappointment show. "Nice," he said, shrugging. Pointing at the cup in Justin's hand, he asked, "Where's the beer?" Suddenly he wanted to get shit-faced himself.

Justin jerked his thumb towards the kitchen. "Couple of kegs in there," he replied. Then he looked at Lance with large, childlike eyes and whispered loudly, "Stay with me, okay? I don't know half this crowd. You'll stay with me, right?" Before Lance could reply, Justin slipped his arm into Lance's.

"Sure," Lance replied. He really needed that beer. Now.

* * * *

I tell myself not to get my hopes up, but I look for a third postcard any day now. I even come home at lunch some days to check the mail. When it finally arrives, I can't believe it's here, real, in my hands. I study the trolley car driving down the streets of San Francisco and wonder how he buys these things. Does he have a pile of old postcards at the house already, and just writes on them when he wants to twist the knife in my heart a little bit more? Or does he tell her he's going to the store for gum or cereal or beer, and when he's there he buys another card on the spur of the moment, standing in the checkout line? I would really love to know what he's thinking -- does he wonder if I'm getting the cards? Does he wonder if I read them, or if I just toss them away?

I should throw them out, unread. I shouldn't do this to myself. I don't need this pain.

But the words on the other side of the card burn my fingers, and I have to read them. The same black letters, the same block print.

_I never told you because I didn't want to admit it to myself. I didn't want the world to know. So I lied to you and I lied to myself, and then I lied to her when I said I do because I don't. I never will, not with her. You think I'm saying this now just because of that night, but it was always you, Lance. I just never wanted to tell you. I never wanted you to know. And now? I can't not tell you. I can't keep it inside anymore. I miss you. I'm stupid and I miss the hell out of you._

Stupid? Maybe. _I lied to you_ \-- he never lied to me. He just never said anything, and that silence hurt more than anything else. _It was always you, Lance. It was always you._

 _Fuck you, Justin._ Tears burn in my eyes and I blink them away. If it was always me, why am I so alone now? Why haven't I seen him or talked to him in over six months? Why do I miss him more and more every fucking day?

* * * *

By midnight, the party was still going strong, and Lance had enough beers in his system to dull the ache in his heart. _He's doing it again,_ he thought as Justin's hand trailed down his thigh absently. _Fuck, can't he see that he's flirting with me? Can't he see how much it's tearing me up inside?_ Leaning closer to Justin, Lance inhaled the fresh scent of his hair deeply before he shouted over the din of the crowd, "I've got to get going now."

Justin turned to him with large, watery eyes. "No," he pouted. He pinched Lance's nose playfully. "You can't leave."

 _Why not?_ Lance wanted to ask. _Because you're drunk and even though I know it's wrong, I'm loving the attention you turn my way?_ "Justin, it's getting late --"

"Come on," Justin said, standing. He swayed a bit on his feet, and Lance placed a hand on the small of Justin's back to steady him. The brief touch ignited Lance's blood. Grinning down at him, Justin tugged on Lance's arm. "I need some air. Come on, Poofu."

Lance rolled his eyes and followed Justin out of the den, heading for the back door. No one noticed them leaving, as yet another stripper had taken the makeshift stage in the living room, and wild catcalls and shouts followed the two friends down the darkened hallway. Suddenly Justin stopped and leaned against the wall. He looked at Lance with glassy eyes and smiled. Lance cleared his throat. "Justin, you okay?"

"Fine," Justin replied, his gaze wandering around the hall before settling on Lance again. He ran one finger down the buttons on Lance's shirt. "Can I tell you something?"

Lance took Justin's hand away, but when he tried to let go, Justin held on tight. "What is it?" he asked, frowning slightly.

Pulling Lance close, Justin whispered, "I'm drunk."

Lance grinned. "No shit," he replied, and before he could stop himself, he touched Justin's cheek. Justin closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

"Kiss me," Justin whispered.

Stepping back, Lance shook his head. "Justin, I don't think that's such a --"

Justin sighed lustily. "I'm getting _married,_ Lance. It doesn't matter now. I can kiss you now because I'm getting married."

"Your logic escapes me," Lance replied, his voice hardening. His lips tingled at the thought of kissing Justin, his body ached for the chance, but he didn't want to tease himself with something he wanted so badly and could never have.

Justin took Lance's collar in both hands and pulled him closer. Lance tried to step back, tried to remain the one in control, the one who wasn't drunk, the one -- and then Justin's full lips closed over his with a warm softness he had always imagined and never really thought possible, and Lance couldn't stop himself from leaning his body against Justin's. "Stay with me tonight," Justin whispered, and even though Lance knew he shouldn't, nothing in the world could make him say no.

* * * *

There isn't a fourth postcard. I tell myself that I'm not waiting for it, I'm not looking for it, I don't care if I never hear from him again, but they're all lies. Like the one he's living now, or so he says. God, I wish I had had the courage to tell him how I felt all those years ago when I had the chance

All the nights I slept in my narrow bed and dreamed of him. All the days I watched him dance and heard him sing and wanted to make him mine. All the words I could have said and never did.

When I'm alone, I remember the way his hands felt along my body that night, so tentative and yet so sure, so eager. I still feel his touch, his kisses, his curls in my hands. I still taste him on my tongue, his body on my lips. I still smell the intoxicating mix of his own musky scent mingled with alcohol and sweat and sex. Sometimes in the morning, before I open my eyes, I pretend I can hear him breathing beside me, his arms holding me close, his body pressed against mine.

And then I wake up and he's gone -- back to her, back to his real life, wherever that is now -- and I'm left alone and aching, and it's all I can do to force myself to crawl out of bed and into my day. Without him. His postcards watch me as I dress, constant reminders that somewhere he's out there, and once in a while, he thinks of me.

I stay at work later and later every evening, trying to drive him from my mind. I bury myself in contracts and negotiations and budgets; I lose myself in the studio and the paperwork and try to forget about him. But every time I close my eyes he's there, those golden curls, those aegean eyes. And it's my fault, all my fault ...

* * * *

Lance woke slowly to the unfamiliar sensation of a warm body cupped against his. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, damp lips kissed the back of his neck, and he moaned as he rolled over in Justin's embrace. _This is heaven,_ he thought lazily, smiling when he saw Justin's angelic face, so innocent and young in sleep. He kissed those pouty red lips and whispered, "Wake up, Justin."

Stretching awake, Justin burrowed closer to Lance and opened his eyes. "Lance," he murmured, still half-asleep, "I think I love you."

 _You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that,_ Lance thought. He kissed Justin again and sighed.

And then he remembered the party from the night before, a room full of their friends who were probably now getting ready for the wedding. He thought of the guys in the band, so happy for Justin, so supportive of his decision to marry. He thought of Britney -- Justin loved _her._ He wanted to be with _her._ Lance had only gotten in the way. He had taken advantage of Justin when he was drunk and horny and needed a friend. Lance had used him to get what he had always wanted, and when Justin realized this, he would be angry. He would know he didn't love Lance, not the way Lance wanted him to. And there was nothing Lance could say or do now to make him feel that way. So he hardened his heart and turned away. "No, you don't, Justin," he said. "You don't love me."

"Lance --"

Lance crawled out of the bed, out of Justin's reach. "You have to be at the church in an hour," he said, not looking at his friend. He tried to ignore the sweet ache in his groin when he thought about the nakedness that had pressed against him. "We're running late." Each word was a nail driven into his chest, and he couldn't turn back to see those sad eyes. He didn't want Justin to see the tears coursing down his cheeks.

"Lance." Every time Justin spoke his name, Lance knew he would die for him over and over again. "Tell me just one thing. Do you love me?"

"I always have," Lance whispered as he got dressed. He rubbed his eyes brusquely. "And I always will."

And then he walked out of the room, out of the house, and out of Justin's life.

* * * *

It was for the best. I kept telling myself that, and it made the days bearable. It was for the best ... and then I got the first postcard, and I knew I should have stayed.

One night I come home later than usual. The streets are dark and unlit in my subdivision, and I want nothing more than a glass of whiskey and the comfort of my cold bed. With the whiskey, perhaps I can forget him long enough to fall asleep without dreaming of that night, but I doubt it.

As I turn down my street, I notice the cars lining both sides of the road. One of the neighbors must be having another party -- they always invite me but I never come. I navigate around the car parked in front of my house and pull into my driveway, my mind already on the whiskey and the bed. I will drink myself to sleep staring at those postcards and wondering what the fourth one would have looked like. I will tell myself he could no longer confine his emotions to those black, block letters, and that's why there are no more postcards. I will tell myself he thinks he loves me, because I can still hear the words echo in my ears. I will remember his curls and his smile and the fact that for one night, I held forever in my arms and was happy.

I fumble with the key in the lock when a soft, low voice from the shadows says my name. "Hello, Lance." I drop the keys and turn to find him standing there, waiting. For me. He hasn't changed a bit, and even though his memory is sharp in my mind, his beauty still numbs me, a shock like cold water. I can't speak -- there are no words to say. "Lance?" he asks, unsure. "Please say something. Please."

"Justin," I manage, and then I clear my throat. Bending to scoop up my keys, I ask, "You want to come in?"

Of course he does. He didn't drive all this way just to stand on my porch. I want to groan at how stupid this sounds. This isn't what I hoped for at all. But Justin simply smiles and says, "Sure." He follows me inside. It's dark -- I should've left the light on in the hall but it's only me and I never leave it on anymore. That way I don't have to look in the mirror when I come home and see the loneliness staring back at me.

The door closes quietly behind us, and then strong hands are on my shoulders, rubbing my arms. I drop the keys again and choke back a sob. "Justin," I whisper. "Please don't do this. Please --"

And then his lips touch my neck, soft and warm and damp, and I want to cry. I can't give in, I can't do this to him, to _myself_ \-- but I can't say no. Jesus Christ, I have never been able to tell him no. "I want to ask you something, Lance," he whispers into my ear, and I shudder at his breathy voice. "Do you love me still?"

As his hands slip around my waist, I whisper, "I always have, Justin. And I always will."


End file.
